Purpose (8 page)

Ryan put a hand on Gar’s shoulder. “The night, what?”

He heard the voice and felt the touch, but it took a moment before he realized what Ryan had asked. “The night David was killed.”

“Killed?”

Another deep breath. It had taken years to wall off the memories and control the emotions. In a day, Ryan had managed to break them down.

“The night after the Purpose found me, I felt a pull. Not the tug I would come to recognize as an innocent calling for vengeance, but a sharp, gut-wrenching yank. Unlike the call to punish the guilty, however, there was no direction, no focus. In forty years, I never felt it again, until yesterday.

“When you left the Metro, just as the doors shut, it happened again. In that instant, I knew what it was: a warning. You were going to die unless I did something.” He finally returned his gaze to Ryan. “Somehow, the Purpose recognized you and was telling me to save you.”

“Me?” Ryan’s eyes went blank. When he blinked, he snapped his head back to Gar. “They were going to kill me. I would have died.”

“They were.” He saw the slight shake in Ryan’s body, followed by another. Carefully, he reached out and touched Ryan’s shoulders. Meeting no resistance, he drew him closer. “Forty years ago, the Purpose tried to warn me so I could save David, but I didn’t understand the warning. This time….”

Arms wrapped around Gar, Ryan kept his head pressed to Gar’s chest. “Why?”

“Why now and not then?” Ryan nodded but didn’t let go. “Again, the Purpose doesn’t explain things. It isn’t capable of it, I guess. But after forty years of hearing the cries and following the pressure to act, I knew this was different.”

Did he say more? How would Ryan react if he told him everything? Truth wasn’t an option, it was a requirement. Being with Gar could be dangerous.

“When I saw you on the Metro, it was like seeing David reborn. You two look nothing alike, but the way you looked at me, how you sat, the position of your head and the movement of your eyes, all screamed ‘David’ to me. It’s why I tried to speak to you.”

“You were told to?” Was that doubt? Insecurity?

“No, the Purpose didn’t tell me to. I wanted to.” Needed to, really. Ryan lost some of his stiffness. “By the time I felt the warning, I was already reminded of David. The recognition between the two feelings was instantaneous.”

“And then that super-brain of yours connected the dots.” Ryan peeked up, smirking.

“Something like that, yeah.” He wasn’t finished, though he wished it was done. “David was on his way home. It was dark. He had a bag with food. Not like we could afford anything fancy. Three men killed him for five dollars and some groceries. They also took a ring I gave him for our first Christmas together.

“The instant he died, I knew it. His was the first call I heard and the only one I still remember. I found the ring on one of them, just before I exacted vengeance.”

If Ryan noticed the return of the cold, raspy voice, he didn’t show it. Another jogger approached, but Ryan didn’t break their embrace. Why did Gar think he would? He’d lost everything already. Everything but a purpose-driven killer.

“Ryan…?”

A small tilt up and their eyes met. Gar frowned. “What’s that for?” Ryan asked.

“You shouldn’t be around me. I’m dangerous, and I attract violence. My life is no place for someone like you.” His words held no self-pity or remorse, just truth. He could deal with being alone. Ryan needed better.

“Someone like me?” There was no anger, no hurt, just confusion. He wasn’t getting the message.

Will waited to be shoved back, but Ryan never released him. “You’re a good person. I’m not.”

“I bet William Morgan was a good, decent person.” Still nothing.

“Will Morgan is dead. There is only Gar.” Was that what he really believed or what he was trying to make Ryan think?

“You said the Purpose is quiet. Maybe Will Morgan isn’t as dead as you think.” He stepped back, his lips tight but curving slightly up. “You were certainly alive last night.”

“Ryan….” Two fingers reached up, interrupting him.

“I’m not leaving, Will. I can’t.”

Ignoring the continued use of his birth name, Will gently collected the hand with his. “Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t.” Ryan slipped his hand free and turned around. “I tried this morning. When I woke up after you left, I tried to figure out why I was still there. Counting the money you gave me, I realized I could go anywhere I wanted. Leave DC, stay, whatever.

“In the shower, I decided to go to Seattle.” He shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to go there. so I figured why not.”

“Seattle’s full of depressing people.”

“Sounds like you’ve been before.” Getting only a small nod, Ryan continued. “So I took my things out to pack them better, and I realized I couldn’t go.”

How hard should he try?
Harder, he could get hurt.
“That was before you knew about me. You haven’t asked, but I’m sure you’re curious. The answer is thousands.”

He watched Ryan’s eyes. That was where the reaction would be clearest. Knowing Gar killed thousands of people, how could he stay?

“Were they all guilty?”

Definitely not the expected response. “Every one of them, but does that make it better?”

“Will….” Ryan closed his eyes before Gar could read them. “I… I can’t leave.”

There it was again, “can’t leave.” He was overlooking something, an important something. Ryan wanted to go but couldn’t. Why not? What could possibly compel him to stay?

Patiently, he let Ryan wrestle with his thoughts in silence. Through closed lids, Gar saw the painful confusion Ryan struggled with. Maintaining his vigil, he tried to remain slightly detached, to not let on that a big part of him wanted Ryan to stay.

Finally, Ryan opened his eyes, shocking Gar with their plea for answers. “Please don’t push me away, Will. I don’t know why, but I just know I need to be here.”

With those two sentences, William Morgan shoved Gar aside, reasserting himself. Will met Ryan’s tense gaze before drawing him close. Pressing his lips to the soft hair, he whispered, “I won’t.”

March 25, 2010—Journal Entry 39-25

A
NOTHER
innocent. She was young, too young. A child. They are the worst. Children don’t understand.

The Purpose has been dormant, but still I felt it, heard it. Why answer if I don’t have to? Force of habit? Duty? Do I like it that much? I’m not sure, other than it felt right. Not a good answer.

Watching me leave, I wonder if Ryan finally understood what I am. Will it change him? He said he needed to be here, but can he say he is prepared for this?

Tires spinning break the silence. I watch the cab leave as fast as it can. The driver doesn’t care that he’s left me. It’s not safe here, and we both know it. Hopefully, I don’t feel him next.

The killer is here, hiding. Another neighborhood where the good people are afraid in their own homes. Why do I suddenly care? They’re alive. That’s not my concern. I only avenge the murder of the innocent.

Barry Farms. Everyone knows everyone who lives here and those who don’t. Good thing I’m not trying to blend in. The brick buildings line the streets. Square, run-down, uncared for. Even at eleven thirty at night, people mill around. Maybe it’s the girl. She was only nine.

The pull is strong, but there is no compulsion to act. It’s unsettling. Everything is the same but different. Without the need to act, I question my motives but am afraid to delve too deep. I might not like what I find.

Am I hiding behind a rationalization? Do I really
have
to avenge the innocent? Insanity and the consequences if I let myself go down that road make for an easy moral decision. Better to punish the guilty than put the innocent at risk. What now?

My target is near, hiding. No one knows it’s him. Not yet, at least. If they find out, he won’t have long to live. No one likes a child rapist. She was only nine.

I feel the eyes of a neighborhood focus on me. Why do I intrude on their grief? They think I’m here to exploit her death. To put their pain into print. Of course, I don’t care about them. Her call directs me, but my focus is off.

Without the need to act, my detachment is imperfect. Or is it the return of emotions that has pushed the need into submission? More answers that elude me.

Walking down the middle of Steven’s Road, I attract attention. Two men drift from the shadows. They want me to leave. No, it’s too late. In their mind, I should never have come.

“Man, why you here?” one shouts. I smell the drugs poisoning him from the inside.

“Go away.” My hiss strikes them like a brick. As quickly as they appeared, they melt back into the inky black recesses of the building. Maybe I should have let them come. Tearing into them would attract a crowd. Then he would know I am coming.

The thought bothers me. Why not just kill him and be done? Let no one see me and just end it. I’ve done it hundreds of times; why not today? The desire for him to know fear is inexplicable but real.

An engine roars to life behind me, breaking my self-reflection. The driver revs it too fast to be coincidence. Hitched to a wave of fear, his enmity hits me, warning of what is coming. I reach for the asp but keep to my route.

Gears turn, tires move, and he launches a thousand-pound missile at me. Dimwitted fool. He is about to learn a hard lesson.

Another step and I snap the collapsible baton to full length. I pivot and face the accelerating attack. I wait a second and then leap. Nothing wrong with my focus now. Twisting, I bring the metal stick down hard. My feet dent the roof even as the windshield shatters, showering the driver in a spray of shards.

I hop off and land with my feet wide, staying upright as the vehicle careens out of control into a pair of parked cars. The driver is lucky. He swerved right, avoiding a direct impact on his side. Surrounded by the airbag, he doesn’t notice my approach.

The driver is bleeding from a hundred cuts, and I rip the door off the green Honda. For certain, he is guilty, but trying to kill me doesn’t warrant death. At least not today.

Like bees from a disturbed hive, the buildings empty. While they’re focused on the destruction caused by one of their own, I tell them to ignore me. I enjoyed this too much. Someone could get hurt.

Her soul tugs at me. He’s come out. I wonder if he knows I’m coming for him. Doubtful. One of the owners runs by me toward her totaled car, and the pull is clear.

Standing with two friends, he is oblivious to my presence. So simple, just smash him once and it’s over. Yet….

“Why did you rape her, Andre?” Each thinks my voice is one of the other two.

“Wh… what?”

“You raped Tarnisha Sims, then killed her.”

Now his friends look uneasy.

“No I didn’t.” Even he wouldn’t believe the denial.

More people cluster when I project curiosity.

“You were bragging about it to Tayvon. I heard you.”

No one questions who is speaking. They each hear someone they trust.

“What?” Fear and a nervous twitch only help convince the still-growing crowd of his guilt. “No I didn’t!”

She was only nine. Even among those who peddle poison to their own people, the death of a small, innocent girl is a tragedy. They want to believe. It doesn’t take much to give them “proof.”

“You took the chain her grandmother gave her for Christmas. It’s in your pocket.”

His head whips around, searching for the speaker, his mind reeling. How can anyone know that?

Hands, big, angry hands, grab him before he flees. “Right front pant pocket,” I announce.

“Get ’Nisha’s mom!”

“He has it!”

I hear bone on flesh, followed by a howl of pain. “No! I didn’t do it.”

I let him see me. “Yes, you did. She cries out to me, asking for vengeance.”

His captors want to beat him, but I hold them back. Not yet, not before the mother can confirm what I know: the necklace was her daughter’s.

Distraught, angry, shaking, the mother arrives. To her, I appear to be an angel, vengeful and terrible.

“He’s the one who hurt your daughter.” My whisper is for her ears only.

“You?” Disbelief and rage.

“Is this ’Nisha’s?” Someone thrusts the small gold chain with a tiny pink giraffe dangling sadly.

Words fail her, and only my arm prevents her sobbing body from collapsing. A moment more and rage takes over. A scream of anguish breaks the silence. None are left unaffected by her grief.

With no prodding, she plants a booted foot in his groin.

Through the tears and spittle, he sees me smile. “Vengeance will hurt.”

Held fast, he can’t escape the rain of blows and kicks. Mom’s sorrow takes her beyond what any could imagine. A black steel-tipped boot strikes Andre’s spine. The man who wears it was a relative. A vertebra cracks, and the body goes limp.

Sirens fill the air, and I take control of the crowd. They need to tell the police what he did, but not who did this to him. I erase from everyone’s memory the image of her uncle breaking his back. No one will remember that the mom beat him up in a fit of grief.

People drift away before the first police cruiser arrives. Alone, I kneel in front of him.